hide a smile. “Secret, huh?”
He nodded, very officially.
“Well, then,” I said. “That makes all the difference.”
The office of the Ombudsman was a low, unassuming brick building that stood at the end of a quiet block in a middle-class neighborhood on the city’s South Side. The houses were modest but well tended, the yards surrounded with chain link fence. My grandfather parked the Olds along the curb, and I followed him up a narrow sidewalk. He tapped buttons on an alarm keypad on the wall next to the door, then unlocked the front door with a key. The interior of the building was equally unassuming, and looked like it hadn’t gotten a style upgrade since the late 1960s. There was a lot of orange. A lot of orange.
“They work late,” I noted, the interior well lit, even given the hours.
“Creatures of the night serving creatures of the night.”
“You should put that on your business cards,” I suggested.
We walked past a reception area and down a central hallway, then into a room on the right. The room housed four metal desks that were placed at intervals, two back-to-back set out from each facing wall. The front and back walls were covered by rows of gunmetal gray filing cabinets. Posters lined the white walls, most of gorgeous, scantily clad women with flowing hair. The prints looked like they were part of a series: Each featured a different woman wearing a tiny scrap of strategically placed fabric, but the “dresses” were cut in different colors, as were the pennants they held in their hands. One woman was blond, her dress blue, and she held a pennant that read “Goose Island.” A second had long, raven-dark hair and was dressed in red. Her pennant read “North Branch.” These, I surmised, were some of the Chicago River nymphs.
“Jeff. Catcher.”
At my grandfather’s voice, the men who sat at two of the desks looked up from their work. Jeff looked every bit the twenty-one-year-old computer prodigy. He was fresh-faced and cute, a tall, lanky guy with a mop of floppy brown hair. He wore trousers and a white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the top, the sleeves rolled halfway up his lean arms, long fingers poised over an expansive set of keyboards.
Catcher had a solidly ex-military look about him—a muscular body beneath a snug olive T-shirt that read “Public Enemy Number One” and jeans. His head was shaved, his eyes pale green, his lips full and sensuous. Had it not been for the annoyed look on his face, I’d have said he was incredibly sexy. As it was, he just looked disgruntled. Wide berth, indeed.
Jeff grinned happily at my grandfather. “Hey, Chuck. Who’s this?”
My grandfather put a hand at my back and led me farther into the room. “This is my granddaughter, Merit.”
Jeff’s blue eyes twinkled. “Merit Merit?”
“Just Merit,” I said, and stuck out a hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Jeff.”
Rather than reaching out to take my outstretched hand, he stared at it, then looked up at me. “You want to shake? With me?”
Confused, I glanced back at my grandfather, but before he could answer, Catcher, his gaze on a thick ancient-looking book in front of him, offered, “It’s because you’re a vamp. Vamps and shifters aren’t exactly friendly.”
That was news to me. But then, up until twenty minutes ago, so were the existence of shifters and the rest of Chicago’s supernatural citizens. “Why not?”
Catcher used two fingers to turn a thick yellowed page. “Aren’t you the one who’s supposed to know that?”
“I’ve been a vamp for three days. I’m not really up on the political nuances. I haven’t even had blood yet.”
Jeff’s eyes widened. “You haven’t had blood yet? Aren’t you supposed to have some kind of crazy thirst after rising? Shouldn’t you be, you know, seeking out willing victims for your wicked bloodlust?” His gaze made a quick detour to the stretch of T-shirt across my chest; then he grinned up at me through a lock of
He nodded, very officially.
“Well, then,” I said. “That makes all the difference.”
The office of the Ombudsman was a low, unassuming brick building that stood at the end of a quiet block in a middle-class neighborhood on the city’s South Side. The houses were modest but well tended, the yards surrounded with chain link fence. My grandfather parked the Olds along the curb, and I followed him up a narrow sidewalk. He tapped buttons on an alarm keypad on the wall next to the door, then unlocked the front door with a key. The interior of the building was equally unassuming, and looked like it hadn’t gotten a style upgrade since the late 1960s. There was a lot of orange. A lot of orange.
“They work late,” I noted, the interior well lit, even given the hours.
“Creatures of the night serving creatures of the night.”
“You should put that on your business cards,” I suggested.
We walked past a reception area and down a central hallway, then into a room on the right. The room housed four metal desks that were placed at intervals, two back-to-back set out from each facing wall. The front and back walls were covered by rows of gunmetal gray filing cabinets. Posters lined the white walls, most of gorgeous, scantily clad women with flowing hair. The prints looked like they were part of a series: Each featured a different woman wearing a tiny scrap of strategically placed fabric, but the “dresses” were cut in different colors, as were the pennants they held in their hands. One woman was blond, her dress blue, and she held a pennant that read “Goose Island.” A second had long, raven-dark hair and was dressed in red. Her pennant read “North Branch.” These, I surmised, were some of the Chicago River nymphs.
“Jeff. Catcher.”
At my grandfather’s voice, the men who sat at two of the desks looked up from their work. Jeff looked every bit the twenty-one-year-old computer prodigy. He was fresh-faced and cute, a tall, lanky guy with a mop of floppy brown hair. He wore trousers and a white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the top, the sleeves rolled halfway up his lean arms, long fingers poised over an expansive set of keyboards.
Catcher had a solidly ex-military look about him—a muscular body beneath a snug olive T-shirt that read “Public Enemy Number One” and jeans. His head was shaved, his eyes pale green, his lips full and sensuous. Had it not been for the annoyed look on his face, I’d have said he was incredibly sexy. As it was, he just looked disgruntled. Wide berth, indeed.
Jeff grinned happily at my grandfather. “Hey, Chuck. Who’s this?”
My grandfather put a hand at my back and led me farther into the room. “This is my granddaughter, Merit.”
Jeff’s blue eyes twinkled. “Merit Merit?”
“Just Merit,” I said, and stuck out a hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Jeff.”
Rather than reaching out to take my outstretched hand, he stared at it, then looked up at me. “You want to shake? With me?”
Confused, I glanced back at my grandfather, but before he could answer, Catcher, his gaze on a thick ancient-looking book in front of him, offered, “It’s because you’re a vamp. Vamps and shifters aren’t exactly friendly.”
That was news to me. But then, up until twenty minutes ago, so were the existence of shifters and the rest of Chicago’s supernatural citizens. “Why not?”
Catcher used two fingers to turn a thick yellowed page. “Aren’t you the one who’s supposed to know that?”
“I’ve been a vamp for three days. I’m not really up on the political nuances. I haven’t even had blood yet.”
Jeff’s eyes widened. “You haven’t had blood yet? Aren’t you supposed to have some kind of crazy thirst after rising? Shouldn’t you be, you know, seeking out willing victims for your wicked bloodlust?” His gaze made a quick detour to the stretch of T-shirt across my chest; then he grinned up at me through a lock of
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